Breathe
by Exhile87
Summary: Part One - Roy Mustang: He will let no one save her see this facet of himself. Part Two - Riza Hawkeye: They know each other so well but he still has a way of surprising her at times. Royai. Manga/2009 animeverse.
1. Breathe

**A/N: The result of an unhealthy three-week Royai obsession. Based on the manga and 2009 anime. **

**Part One of Two - Roy Mustang.**

**Title and lyrics borrowed from _Breathe_ by Autozamm.**

**I've proof-read this but do let me know if there are any mistakes or typos.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

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_It takes all my breath just to say how much I'm feeling_

_But words keep failing me now_

o-o-o-o-o

They stop by her hometown on the way back from Resembool. She had not wanted to but he had insisted.

Berthold Hawkeye's tombstone is half green with moss. He helps her scrape the engraved letters clean and then watches as she stands there and stares with an unreadable face. Over the years, he has learnt the intricate manner in which she works, how to read her body language and subtle tell-tale signs in the ways she frowns or smiles or simply keeps silent, but at this moment, he finds that he has trouble deciphering her. She and he father had had an unusual relationship. Neither had been outwardly affectionate to one another, or perhaps they had, just not in front of him.

Still, it is hard to picture Master Hawkeye focusing on anything else but alchemy. He is reminded of her tattoo, then, and for the thousandth time, can't help but wonder if it had been granted or forced onto her.

They stand at the same spot they did five years ago but now with different postures, different goals, a different outlook on life. They are innocent and naïve no longer.

She asks later if they could drop by the old Hawkeye manor and he agrees. He had spent a great deal of his late-teenage years there, after all, and he is keen for a visit. The place is now a bed and breakfast, and the proprietor—after one look at their military uniforms—is more than happy to let them wander around after she explains. He follows as she walks down old, familiar hallways, looking around with a sense of nostalgia. The walls have been repainted and most of the place has been refurbished but he can still remember simple details like how the living room used to be laid out and that little crack in the bricks on top of the fireplace.

They pass all the rooms without entering and she only stops at one on the east end of the second floor. He knows this room well—it was where he had first seen his Master's fruits of labour. He can recall where the bed used to be, where the desk and closet were pushed up against the walls. He remembers his awe and shock and horror, remembers the way she had shivered under his fingertips.

She walks around the room slowly, only touching with her eyes, and he stays by the doorway to give her some space. Maybe this is cathartic for her, in a way, like the time he scarred her for life. She looks out the window and as she stands there, framed by sunlight and shadow, a vision of a younger, shorter-haired girl flashes in his head. He closes his eyes and turns away, as if not wanting to intrude into her thoughts.

Their train to East City arrives in half an hour. The station is as small and quaint as he remembers, and while they sit waiting on a bench, she thanks him quietly for deciding to stop here. He just smiles in response, then he spies a man and a cart nearby, selling the crusty lamb pies that the town is so well-known for, and his stomach starts to rumble at the sight and smell.

"Would you like one?" he asks, and the way the corner of her lips curve up is enough of an answer.

o-o-o-o-o

_Oxygen,_ he thinks. _Carbon. Hydrogen. Calcium. Phosphorus._

Obey the military. Do not create gold. Do not create humans.

He looks down at the newly filled grave and raises his face to the sky. Down, then up again. The smell of fresh soil fills his nostrils. His vision is starting to become blurry. He sobs, holds his breath for a little while, and then breaks down quietly, broad shoulders trembling and gloved fingers pressed against his eyes. She stands close—a motionless, reserved but comforting presence, and does not make a sound as his walls come tumbling down. He will let no one save her see this facet of himself.

When she drives him back later that night, he keeps his mind occupied by going over the what-ifs and theories and conjectures arising from his investigation so far. He is so deep in thought that he doesn't even realise they have arrived until the car slows to a halt. She pulls the parking brake and then they simply sit there in a familial silence. He looks up at his dark, empty townhouse and dreads the sudden loneliness it represents. He can still smell the soil from the cemetery, hear the cries of anguish from little Elicia Hughes. The dagger in his chest twists and plunges deeper.

Oxygen, carbon, hydrogen, calcium and phosphorus. It is strange to think that such simple elements make up most of a human being, and it is alarming how his mind is thinking only one thing—_Where would I get phosphorus at this hour?_

Be thou for the people. Obey the military. Do not create gold. _Do not create humans._

Tonight… is going to be a long night.

She reads him like a book, as she always does. "… Do you want me to stay?" she asks softly and it is not First Lieutenant Hawkeye but Riza who speaks. He massages the bridge of his nose and sighs heavily, feeling the back of his cranium throb in rhythm with his pulse. The day has been a whirlwind of emotions and her offer is tempting but he knows better. Now is not the time to be giving into this. They cannot afford to just yet.

"Thank you," he answers gratefully. "But I'll be okay."

She has kept the car going and he is glad for that, because he isn't sure just how firm his resolve would have been if she had turned the ignition off. She reaches over to touch his wrist lightly and her warmth seeps through the fabric of his glove and spreads to his entire being. He pulls the glove off with his other hand and holds onto her, soaking up comfort like a sponge. His thumb runs over her knuckles gently and when he raises his gaze to look at her, he knows her hazel eyes are saying, _I understand._

o-o-o-o-o

The Madame places an empty glass before him. "Tonic water," he says and she grunts in acknowledgement. Vanessa sits close to him, pulling onto his scarf teasingly, flirting outrageously as she always does. He flirts back just as daringly, always with a glib mouth but never with his heart. They all know how easily he slips in and out of his second skin and the girls, although disappointed at first, now think nothing of it.

When Vanessa moves onto her next conquest and they are finally alone, Chris Mustang leans against the counter and stubs out her cigarette in a half empty ashtray. He has grown up with the scent of tobacco and soot but still cannot help wrinkling his nose at the smell.

"So," she starts in a low voice. "What happened to Elizabeth?"

"I told you, someone else took her," he replies curtly.

"Huh…" she grunts with a shrug, scratching her head. "I figured she finally got sick of covering your ass and left."

He gives her a small, lopsided smile, despite the situation, and runs a finger along the rim of his drink, uneasiness clouding his onyx eyes, watching a drop of liquid slowly slide down the wall of the glass into the pool below. The ripples disappear as quickly as they had formed. "… I should have seen it coming," he admits quietly. In chess, you learn to predict your opponent's moves, but no, he had been too confident, too bold in his actions, and it has cost him dearly. He wonders how long it will take him to get used to the absence of someone who has been by his side for the past five years.

The Madame's expression indicates that she understands him perfectly, regardless of how vague his words are. "I'm sure she'll be fine," she says harshly, though he knows her well enough to sense the consoling reassurance in her hard tone. She is right, of course, and he doesn't disagree. The Lieutenant should be safe—relatively speaking—as long as he plays his cards correctly. After all, why kill a hostage if you want leverage on your enemy?

It is only the thought of her being so close to a Homunculus—especially one like King Bradley—that frightens him to the core.

Madame Christmas catches the deep frown on his face and asks flatly, "Want me to put some surveillance on her?" Her words make him pause, then he shakes his head firmly, feeling a little guilty for actually considering the proposition. He won't spy on his own people, especially _her_. He owes her far too much to go behind her back like that.

The Madame sees through him easily enough. She smirks, reaching into her coat for a pack of cigarettes, and slips a roll out. "One of these days, kid, you're gonna regret holding out for so long," she mumbles, lighting up.

He doesn't answer and just lifts the glass to his lips.

o-o-o-o-o

He drives home, flowers and all, stops by the gate and turns the engine off. The road ahead is brightly lit, tiny insects fluttering about the streetlamps, mirroring the emotion in his chest. He still can't get the memory out of his head—the mild strain in her tone, the way she caught her breath. He didn't need to be face to face with her to sense her utter relief. He had heard it right from that subtle, quiet sigh.

Something is wrong. He can feel it in the pit of his stomach. Fingers clenching around the steering wheel, he starts the car again. There is a cautious voice in the back of his head warning him of the consequences of his actions, because who can tell, really, how carefully they are both being watched? If anything, this would only tighten the Homunculi's chain around his neck, and yet, he knows he will end up tossing and turning in bed tonight if he doesn't do this.

Her neighbourhood is quiet at this hour. He parks on the opposite side of the road and peers through the windscreen. When he sees that her lights are still on, his spirits lift slightly. Good. He'll be able to see something, at least.

He spends the next few minutes simply studying the window. He couldn't make anything out. No shadows, no movements, just bright yellow the colour of her hair. The anxiety gnawing at his guts is not easily placated and the logical alchemist within him is beginning to question his actions. Really, what else does he think he can do from here? What does he expect to see? Nothing seems out of the ordinary and yet, there had been _something_ in the way she had breathed over the phone. Has Bradley done or said something to her?

Roy jerks when he suddenly sees a shadow darting across the room. Then a silhouette of her passes by the window and he exhales deeply, not even realising he has been holding his breath the entire time. He opens the door to step out, leaning against the car. _Just once more,_ he says to himself. He just needs to get a better look, just needs see her face to reassure his pounding heart and nagging instinct.

She reappears a moment later to draw the curtains, hair down and a towel around her shoulders, and he straightens up when she catches sight of him, unsure of what her reaction would be. She pauses, then unlatches the window and leans out into the night, looking up and down the street a couple of times before settling on him. She doesn't say a word.

They stare at one another silently. He swallows the lump in his throat and sighs again, heartened by her countenance. He knows from her expression that things aren't absolutely right—how can they be, with everything that has happened? There is no surprise or curiosity on her face, however, just plain gratitude and he realises, then, that he has done the right thing—for himself and somehow, for her also—by coming here tonight. She is safe and _alive_, and that is all he needs to see.

He notices after a while that she is pondering over the flowers in his backseat. Shrugging, he gives her a sheepish smile, raising a hand in a half salute. She returns the gesture, then he jumps back into the car and heads home for the second time that night.

o-o-o-o-o

He'd thought that letting the homunculus Envy live was the hardest thing he has had to do in his life. He is wrong—_so very wrong—_because this, here, _now_, is a million times harder than that.

He struggles and screams and _pulls_ with all his might but all he ends up with are burning muscles and a sweat filled vision, an indifferent cackle in the background and beautiful blonde hair soaking in a puddle of blood. He heaves against his captors, fingers straining to a curl, _anything_ that can give him a spark because that is all he needs to render them all to a burning crisp. _I'll kill you, you son-of-a-bitch! I'll fucking kill you!_ The thoughts of rage hammer violently in his head and he only realises that he has roared the words aloud when the man holding onto that glowing vial of red widens his grin and taunts him again.

He had been prepared to do human transmutation once—months ago as he had stood by the tombstone of a murdered comrade. And now, through the whirlwind of contradicting ideas in his mind, he finds himself actually trying to remember the principles and theory of the forbidden alchemy (_Oxygencarbonhydrogennitrogen—)_, trying to ignore the small part of himself that is urging him to _stop_, trying to form a coherent plan amidst the mental haywire that is telling him that he _has to save her. _

_Not like Maes. I won't lose you like Maes._ He won't be burned twice. _I can't lose you like Maes._

And yet, just one look into her eyes—honey brown with a fiery defiance even in this moment of despair—and he understands how this will end. He chokes back another scream of anger and frustration. _I can't lose you._ He breathes hard, his struggling gradually ceasing, feeling his energy draining at the realisation. _I can't lose you, but I can't make this mistake again. _His head hangs low in defeat.

He has betrayed her once and hurt her twice already, and if these precious seconds are to be their last together, he can't bring himself to go against her will. He won't be this selfish, no matter how hard it is to see her in pain, no matter how hard it is to watch the life seep away from her.

"… Alright," he whispers hoarsely. He _won't_ be this selfish, no matter how much he needs her. "Alright, Lieutenant."

o-o-o-o-o

Young Elicia stares up at him with round, emerald eyes as he sits on the couch, her small, chubby fingers playing with the hem of her skirt. Her eyebrows are raised and her forehead furrowed, as if she is thinking hard about what to say. He can't help but realise how different she seems now. Can't help but see a shadow of Maes Hughes in her profile.

Gracia returns from the kitchen with a tray and he accepts the cup of tea gratefully. Elicia then turns her attention to Riza, who is next to him, and studies her fixatedly, loitering by her mother.

"It's rude to stare, Elicia," Gracia chastises gently and the little girl turns red and buries her face into her mother's dress, evoking a smile from his adjutant. The conversation moves on to ordinary issues—how are he and the Lieutenant recovering? Is the military coping alright with the events of the past weeks? And what about the Elric brothers and Winry Rockbell?

"They're very well. I'm sure they will drop by for a visit soon," he says, lifting the cup to his lips. There is a pause as he takes a sip and it grows into a pregnant silence. He shares a quick look with Riza and her head inclines slightly in response. Placing her cup and saucer on the coffee table, she clears her throat and slowly stands up. Gracia blinks in surprise at first, then catches his meaning as his eyes hover over to the small girl in her lap.

"Elicia dear, why don't you show Lieutenant Hawkeye the doll you got for your birthday?" Gracia says gently, patting her daughter's head. Elicia brightens up visibly, as if pleased with any opportunity to show off her toys. "Do you like to play?" she asks Riza shyly.

"Uh-huh," Riza beams and that is enough of an answer for the toddler as she scampers off excitedly. The Lieutenant gives him a sidelong glance as she leaves and he nods his thanks. He waits until he and Gracia are alone and then he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and says quietly, "I found him."

Gracia stares without a word and he knows from the way her hands start to tremble that she understands exactly who he means. She sets her cup down and closes her eyes, a hand to her mouth to muffle a choked sob, and her demeanour crumbles. He sits rigidly as her tears start to fall, feeling a cold chill wrap around his heart. Should he have kept this from her? Is this what Maes would have wanted? He reaches into his pocket and offers her his handkerchief.

"… Did you kill him?" she finally whispers, as if knowing all along that that had been his intention. They are ugly words from someone so placid, so hidden from the brutality of war and violence of the military.

"No," he answers and tries to ignore the fact that there is guilt in his voice. "But he's dead." And why does he sound so defensive?

Another sob and she dabs her swollen eyes with the silky fabric. "Tell me everything," she says, and it is a demand, not a request.

He obeys and only omits one detail. There is no need for her to know exactly how Maes had been caught off guard.

o-o-o-o-o

It is moments like this with her that he treasures deeply, when all they share is a warm silence and a distinct awareness of one another. He likes that they can simply sit side by side without a word and bask in each other's presence. She is quiet as she leans an elbow against the car window and looks outside, shadow and light taking turns to blanket her face at each streetlamp they pass. Her hand rests by her seat, mere inches from his own on the gear stick. No doubt she is as fatigued as he is. It has been a long day for both of them.

The roads are mostly deserted at this hour of the night. He tells her that he may be heading to Ishval next week to see how the next phase of the rebuild is progressing. Would she like to come?

"You know you don't have to ask, sir," she answers, glancing over to him and he gives a low chuckle. "Just wanted to be polite," he counters. Even with his attention on the road, he can almost hear the tiny small on her lips.

They reach her place five minutes later and then, both of them simply sit there in their seats, unmoving. He finds himself staring at the steering wheel, going over his usual thoughts about how he doesn't want her to leave just yet and wondering why all he can hear is her breathing. When she turns to him, he automatically meets her gaze. "I appreciate the ride. Good night, sir." Her tone is level and formal as she opens the car door a crack.

It started with two people in a cemetery a decade ago and maybe, just maybe, he thinks now, it can finally change here with two people in a car in front of her apartment block.

"Riza," he calls and catches hold of her hand. Her caramel eyes dart straight to him and one look into them is enough to convince him and allay what little uncertainty he has. Leaning over, he pulls her close and kisses her softly, fingertips tracing her jaw and the dip in her neck. He hears a muted gasp and isn't quite sure if it's his or hers, and then she is gradually pressing up to him and her fingers are weaving around his lapel and collar and through his hair and he decides that he quite likes having them there.

When they part, taking in short, shallow breaths, foreheads touching and noses bumping, he feels her sigh, an almost inaudible "Mmm..." against his cheek and that simple sound says more than she ever could. He closes his eyes and takes in her scent and knows that this connection between them—right here, right now, a chemistry even more ancient that alchemy—is the life force that has kept him going all this time and it is all he wants to feel for the rest of his existence.

She sighs again, sharing his quiet contentment, and finally murmurs, "Good night, Roy." Her hand trails down the front of his jacket, filling him with warmth and longing, and the way his fingers linger on her skin when she slowly pulls away tells her the words he doesn't need to say out loud. When he is left alone in the car, he watches with wild, racing thoughts as she crosses the street, leaning back in his seat just as she gives him one last look before disappearing behind the double doors.

He stays motionless, the low rumble of the engine rattling his bones, closing his eyes and feeling her against him and drawn to that last alluring glance from her. This sensation, this response—is it only this intense because they have waited so long, or simply because they have always been two halves of a single soul?

Yes. Perhaps they can finally afford to have this changed tonight.

He turns the car engine off and opens the door.

o-o-o-o-o

_All I ever needed was you, to wait_

_To breathe as one, to breathe as one_

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**A/N: Feedback is much appreciated. **


	2. No Other Way

**A/N: Thank you for the great feedback! Here is part two of two - Riza Hawkeye.  
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**Lyrics and chapter title borrowed from _No Other Way_ by Jack Johnson.**

**Again, I've proofread this but do let me know if you spot any errors.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing... except Fieldes and Paeroth. **

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_Sleep and know that if I knew all of the answers, I would not hold them from you_

_Know all of the things that I know_

_Because we told each other there is no other way_

o-o-o-o-o

She doesn't know exactly when it started, but maybe everything began that evening in her bedroom, with her shirt on the floor and her bare back to him.

Ishval is red and brown, dry and hot, stifling and unforgiving. She peers through the scope, crosshairs on a black-haired man with white gloves, her finger a slight pressure on the trigger. She imagines steeling herself and taking the shot, seeing his head burst into a thousand pieces. It is one of her many fleeting fantasies in this god-forsaken place. A bullet to the head for his betrayal of her trust.

"Movement at twelve o'clock," Fieldes, her spotter, suddenly says. She blinks and mindlessly turns her attention to the crumbling ruins of a temple. Bodies are strewn about the rubble and some vultures are beginning to circle in the sky. She waits, breaths shallow and in sync with the pulse pounding in her ears.

All is still in her vision, then a glint on the top right corner, just by a broken window in temple. Shifting quickly, her movements governed entirely by instinct now, she pulls the trigger and a spray of red follows the ringing in her head. She can see something tumble, then a lifeless hand and a long, thin barrel sticking out amongst the debris. An Ishvalan sniper. He had been careless and slow. They are always too slow for her.

The cartridge from her rifle discharges over her shoulder with a _clink_. She breathes in the dust and scent of gunpowder, scanning the surroundings for any other movements. The vultures from before are already on the ground, tearing into a rotting corpse, completely unfazed by the gunshot.

"All clear," says Fieldes. "You live up to your name, cadet. Good work."

She doesn't respond and just tries to ignore the growing feeling of self-loathing within her. Fieldes takes a swig of water from a canteen and offers her some but she declines even though there is a taste of sand at the back of her throat.

_A bullet to the head for his betrayal._ What about _her _betrayal, then, to the many innocents? Why are soldiers, who ought to be protecting civilians, murdering them instead?

And why is she so damn good at it?

o-o-o-o-o

The Major General approaches her after the ceremony and she automatically straightens up, posture rigid. "At ease, please," he says just as she is raising a hand to salute. She lets her arm drop back to her side, a little unsure of what to do or say next.

"Congratulations, Second Lieutenant. The promotion was a long time coming," Grumman says with a slow smile. "Lieutenant Colonel Mustang tells me you've been a great help to him and his team."

Her shoulders relax slightly. "Thank you, sir," she answers politely.

"I hear you'll be heading down to Resembool soon?"

"Yes…" she says with a nod. "There've been reports of a brilliant alchemist there. We leave in two days." Inwardly, she doesn't know why she is telling him this. Roy reports to him so it is likely he already knows all this, but she simply dreads the awkward silences between them, like the one hanging above their heads now. Grumman stands with his hands clasped behind his back, watching the people around them with a shrewd gaze, and she shifts her weight to her other foot, wondering if he has something else to speak to her about or if there is _anything_ she can say that will make this less uncomfortable.

They are practically strangers—she cannot recall a single memory of him from her childhood and although she has been stationed in East City for a while now, they've never spoken much to one another. They have probably only ever seen each other once or twice since she has been here. It is unsettling to think that they share the same blood—is she a horrible person to be feeling no sense of attachment at all to her own grandfather? Her father never mentioned him and there had been no pictures, no evidence at all that the man had even been aware of her existence. Her fingers are subconsciously fiddling with the cufflink by her other wrist.

"Paeroth is on the way to Resembool. You should stop by if you get the chance," Grumman says softly and her hand stills. "They're famous for their lamb pies. I tried it once. It was quite good."

Something is telling her to read between the lines. She is thinks of Roy, suddenly, because the Lieutenant General's tone now is strangely familiar. "… When did you try it?" she asks quietly.

He cocks his head to side, a small frown on his forehead. "Hmm, about twenty years ago now, I think?" he replies, touching his chin thoughtfully. "The people I was visiting made me one. I'm sure it tastes as good now as it did back then."

Her eyes soften at his words. They fall silent, still standing side by side, and then he excuses himself with another smile, walking over to a nearby group of newly commissioned officers. She stares after him, thinking about what he had said before. Twenty years ago. She had been but a baby then.

_The people I was visiting made me one. _In some ways, his subtle manner reminds her a lot of her father and his indirect, confusing gestures of affection.

o-o-o-o-o

The telephone booth rattles dangerously just as she picks up the receiver. "Get out!" she barks at the bulky suit of armour that is trying to squeeze in with her and pushes the door hard against him. He ends up getting caught in between and she takes this brief reprieve to dial for Central. The Colonel is, thankfully, still in his office.

Later, Barry sits close to her as they wait by the deserted street, metal knee and elbow digging into her indiscriminately. Everytime she edges away, he simply scoots closer, curious and inquisitive and full of questions.

"Who are we waiting for, sweetie?"

"… My superior officer."

"Can I chop him up when he gets here?"

"_No_. And give me that," she orders wearily when he raises the cleaver to her face. Surprisingly, he hands over the weapon without protest and as she places it down on the ground by her feet, he reaches out to her head with his other large glove. She instinctively shies away.

"Your hair's pretty. Can I chop some off and keep it?" His interest sends shudders up her spine and she starts to move further back, holding out a hand firmly. "Can you just… give me some space, please?" She has noticed that he appears much, much more willing to cooperate when spoken to politely. The last thing she wants to do is agitate him, though the aggressiveness he had shown before has seemingly evaporated into thin air.

"Okay!" He says distractedly. Looking around, he is silent for a moment—(_Phew,_ she thinks)—and then he asks, "You got a boyfriend, miss?"

_Oh, for God's sake… _"No."

"… I can be your boyfriend." His tone is almost hopeful and a part of her suddenly wants to laugh at the ludicrousness of all this. She had her share of admirers back in school—even one or two in the academy, in fact—but _this_ is just ridiculous!

"I really like strong women," Barry continues animatedly. "They struggle the most when I try to chop 'em."

Her eyes twitch. She finds that her fingers are already touching the reassuring butt of the handgun by her hip. He doesn't notice because his attention is shifting to her bag of groceries nearby. "Whatcha got in there?" He nosily starts to rummage through the bag, tossing out some cans and boxes. She grits her teeth and bends down to pick up the items, jaws tensing and having the urge to shoot his head off again.

"Can you sit still for _just_ one minute and be quiet?" she says impatiently. He doesn't respond but his helmet bobs up and down in a nod, and then he starts rhythmically tapping his cuisses, rocking back and forth on his feet with a continuous creaking sound. She can see him staring at her in her peripheral vision and her eyes involuntarily twitch once more. Even the silence is unnerving. This is hands down the most uncomfortable situation she has ever been in.

_Creak, creak, creak, creak._ "… So what's your name, sweetie?"

_Hurry up, Colonel…! _

o-o-o-o-o

Black Hayate is a warm, welcome comfort as she sits on the floor and leans back against the wall, fingers running through soft ebony and ivory fur. His tail thumps against her knee excitedly. No doubt the dog is doubly pleased at the special attention, but her heart is still pounding in her chest, her forehead still damp from sweat. Hayate licks the bruise on her wrist—rough, wet nose touching her palm. He pants happily as she scratches the back of his ears.

When she slowly gets to her feet, the darkness in the next room is an uneasy reminder. She inhales deeply and then turns on the lights, not just in her bedroom but even in the bathroom and storage closet. She stands in the hallway where her shadow is the least opaque and finds her eyes wandering to every corner and crevice in the room that is not touched by light. Hayate is by her feet and he is looking up at her, tail still wagging slightly, hopeful for more cuddling.

She feels silly. She is not a child—she shouldn't be acting this way about the dark, but she can't help her mind going over and over the incident at the Fuhrer's residence. She can almost feel the cold tendrils on her skin, around her neck, on her cheek. A shiver runs up her back.

Closing her eyes, she takes in a long breath and thinks of his voice over the phone. Calm, low, concerned.

_I'll be fine. _A hot shower, and then bed. She will get through this. She will get through tonight.

Still, she keeps all the lights on while she is in the bathroom. Hayate is waiting patiently outside when she comes out warm and refreshed, and later, as she is brushing her hair, he stands by the bedroom door with his ears pricked before strolling over to lie down at the foot of her bed. She gets a drink of water from the kitchen and moves to draw the curtains in the living room but what she sees outside makes her instantly stop. There is a familiar car parked on the other side of the road and someone is standing outside by the driver's seat. Her breath catches at her throat.

_I will always be watching you,_ a voice hissing in her head is a haunting reminder, but the window is open before she even realises it and seeing him looking up at her is enough to dispel the darkness. His face is grim and troubled, yet the unspoken words they share as they studied one another are enough to fill her with comfort. She hasn't realised just how much she has missed him. Sighing softly, her muscles relax as she leans against the pane.

She should have known he'd have caught something in her voice just now. She should have anticipated this. They know each other so well but he still has a way of surprising her at times. She suddenly notices that the backseat of his car is filled with a light coloured pile of something and it takes her a minute to realise they are flowers. Her eyebrows gradually quirk up. He wasn't kidding before.

After he leaves, she shuts the window and pulls the curtains, feeling as if a weight has been lifted off her shoulders. Reaching for the switch on the wall, she pauses just for a second before flicking it and plunging the room into darkness. Suddenly the shadows don't seem menacing at all.

o-o-o-o-o

He slips off his gloves, orders her to take off her shirt and asks Edward to transmute some gauze and alcohol. "Thirty, forty percent—but no more than fifty," he says sharply. Scar stands rigidly a few meters away, arms crossed and staring down the dark hallway. If he is annoyed at this delay in their progress, he does not show it.

She frowns but one look at her superior officer's expression and she shrugs off her jacket without protest. Edward picks up a rock and tears a strip of cloth from his cloak for the transmutation and a minute later, he comes over to hand Roy the makeshift dressing and a small bowl. When she gingerly starts to pull her black shirt over her head, the young alchemist hastily retreats to join Scar and she finds herself grateful for the privacy. It's not that she is embarrassed, but she just doesn't want him near enough to notice the tattoo and burns on her back. She is no mood for explanations.

Roy kneels close, his shadow looming over her as he pushes away her brassiere strap and the silver chain around her neck, inspecting the wound. She turns to try and see the injury herself but the angle is too awkward and he tells her to stop moving. She sighs. Her shoulder burns and she pulls the rest of her blonde tresses aside to ease his task, focusing instead on the way the light jumps on and off his face from the glint of her dog tags and trying hard not to think about how, barely ten minutes ago, she had been so close to putting a bullet in his back.

He dips some gauze in the alcohol and catches her eyes. The anticipation is familiar—a haunting déjà vu creeping up her spine. The pain is nothing compared to what he had inflicted on her before, yet she still can't help jerking as he dabs the cool cloth on her raw skin. She bites her bottom lip and shuts her eyes. Pain comes in all sorts of forms, but it numbs after a while, she remembers. It is only later, when he starts to wind the rest of the dressing around her to cover the wound, that she realises her nails have been digging into his coat the entire time.

When he starts to speak, she knows instantly that his mind is far from what his hands are doing. "… You did precisely what I needed you to do, and I can't thank you enough for that, Hawkeye." His words are soft and calm. She takes in his scent of ash and smoke and sweat and watches as he knots the dressing just by her chest. Neither is in the least bit uneasy by their proximity. She had bared a lot more to him in the past, after all.

"Just doing my job," she responds tightly. His stare is weary but piercing. She would have pulled the trigger if he hadn't backed down—she _knows_ she would have and his eyes tells her that he realises that as well. It would have been the darkest moment of her life and even thinking about it now is making her heart thump painfully._ I don't ever want to do that again_, she wants to say to him, or maybe she is already saying it through her own eyes. _Don't make me do that again, Roy. _

His forehead furrows slightly and his lips are pressed in a grim, straight line. He draws his hands back, fingers brushing fleetingly against her neck and jaw, and stands up slowly, back straight and shoulders levelled. As she slips her shirt back on, she thinks she hears him say under his breath, "I won't."

o-o-o-o-o

She should have known the limits of her own body, really. There is only so much adrenaline and willpower can achieve. One moment she is standing by him, surrounded by carnage and debris, and the next, the world is spinning around her and she is sagging against him and collapsing onto the ground. She can feel him tugging on her arm and sleeves, calling out in panic and urgency, "Hawkeye! Hawkeye, are you alright? Medic! Armstrong, get a medic! _Hurry!"_

The first person she sees later when she regains consciousness is Rebecca. The Second Lieutenant has a wide grin on her face but her anxiety and concern are evident in her black irises. "So, is it like what they say? Did your life flash before your eyes?" They are her first words and Riza wants to laugh, despite the gravity of the situation. Maybe it's the morphine kicking in because she sure as hell can't feel anything now.

Rebecca fills her in on what's happened and for the first time since this all began, she finally thinks that maybe now, she can take a deep breath and lie back and be at peace with what they have accomplished. Her eyelids are heavy. She wonders just how much blood she had lost. She wonders where Roy is. If he had managed to get her here to the hospital, no doubt he is safe and well, but there is an incessant thought prodding the back of her hazy mind, telling her that she is forgetting something.

"Looks like the Colonel's got a lot on his hands, huh? This mess will be a pain in the ass to clean up," Rebecca continues and suddenly, the memories come rushing back, as if someone has just emptied a bucket of icy cold water onto her head.

"… The Colonel," she starts tiredly, rubbing her temples. _That's right._ "His eyes were…"

Her friend's expression grows grim as she breaks the news. Rebecca squeezes her hand comfortingly and stays by her side for a few more minutes until a nurse ushers her away. The world is a vision of grey and white when you are lying on a hospital cot. This is probably what Havoc must have felt. She doesn't know why that thought is relevant, and then all she sees is an empty abyss as she slowly gives in to the fatigue.

The room is dim when she opens her eyes again. He sits next to her now, half hidden in the shadows, a silent but commanding presence. He leans forward in his chair and the way his stare focuses on her makes her heart leap to her throat. Her thoughts start to unwind slowly amidst the confusion and lethargy. She is drained, so very tired, but still with just enough energy to reach out to his face and wonder, is this a dream? But… how can he…?

He doesn't say a word and just catches her fingers with a bandaged hand and plants a kiss onto one of her knuckles, holding her tight.

o-o-o-o-o

His skin is warm and soft as she traces lazy circles on his stomach, forefinger running along the scar tissue by his hip, up to his chest and down again. He is not ticklish but there is a small smile on his lips even as he awakens from his slumber. She notices that he tends to sleep after, regardless of the time of day. He turns to look at her, then, and she finds herself drowning in the satiety in his onyx eyes. His dark hair is unkempt and sticking out in weird angles and she tries not to think about how it is her fault, really, for always losing so much control—so much of _herself_—to him when they make love. She wonders if there are red marks tracking down the muscles he is lying on.

"Hi," she murmurs and he just smiles sleepily and leans in to claim her lips, an arm curled around her, his palm pressed against her back—the part of her that had initiated this link, this inherent bond between their two souls, a symbol hidden from the eyes of others, marking her as his and no one else's.

"… I have to go," she says later, when he is holding her close and her forehead is nestled next to his throat. "I need to feed Hayate."

He is reluctant to draw his arm back but finally allows her to pull away and watches as she leaves the bed and starts to dress. "Take the car," he offers but she shakes her head. Best to be as inconspicuous as possible, especially at this time of the evening. He doesn't say anything else but his expression tells her that he is thinking along the same lines.

Her dog tags lie next to his on the nightstand. They always take them off before—a physical reminder of the true obstacle in their path, the real reason they can't afford to fully let go of all their inhibitors just yet. She pulls the silver chain over her head and tucks it in under her top, then, after a moment of consideration, slips on her jacket and buttons up. A fully garbed soldier leaving a house is less suspicious than a half-clothed one, or so she hopes.

As she is fixing her hair, she turns to see him sitting up in bed. The sheets are pooled around him, his muscles lean and charcoal eyes aflame with unspoken desire. His stare is penetrating and intense, as if he is already undressing her in his mind and her blood instantly starts to run hotter at the thought. Something stirs in her belly and begins to throb between her legs and she stops brushing—a mistake on her part but she cannot help it. She knows it is something he would catch right away, something he would immediately take advantage of. Emotions that had previously been so easy to repress threaten to break free once more.

"Do you really have to leave?" he asks huskily, a ghost of a smile on his face.

Honestly, she should have known better than to pause, because a second later, she finds herself between him and the bed, uniform and all, limbs intertwined and hair a tangled mess again, kissing him hungrily and drinking him down, as if wanting to make up for all their lost time. Subterfuge be damned. One night of weakness like this should be alright… shouldn't it?

"I'm taking the car, and I'll be back after," she says between breaths and feels him smirk triumphantly against her lips.

The Flame Alchemist, ever the opportunist.

o-o-o-o-o

_Leaving like a day that's done and part of a season_

_Resolve is just a concept that's as dead as the leaves_

_But at least we can sleep, it's all that we need_

_When we wake, we will find our minds will be free to go to sleep_

o-o-o-o-o

* * *

**A/N: Feedback would be much appreciated.**

**There is a Royai fanart sketch floating around that greatly inspired a scene in the last part. Let me know if you want me to direct you to it... ;)**


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